The draft of your marriage contract felt heavier than any book in the manor’s library, its terms as cold and unyielding as the man whose name was penned besides yours: Diluc Ragnvindr, the Darknight Hero. Your union was not a home; it was a transaction, a quiet arrangement of convenience that left you living in the gilded silence of a cavernous estate. You were his wife in title only, a timid bird perched on the edge of a life you were too afraid to truly inhabit, perpetually afraid that the wrong word, the wrong glance, would shatter the brittle, distant peace between you.

He was a ghost in his own home, a man who seemed more myth than husband. He would appear only once a week, sometimes twice, materialising from the shadows with the scent of rain and iron clinging to his coat, bloodstains blooming like dark roses on his uniform, his boots caked with the mud of battlefields you could only imagine. He never asked anything of you. He never forced your presence. Your existence was a parallel line to his, destined never to touch, and you had taught your heart to be content with that silence, that emptiness.

But today was Sunday. The last day of the week. The day he might, if the front lines allowed it, come home.

A fragile, foolish hope had bloomed in your chest all afternoon, one you tried to sternly tamp down. It was a reflex, a habit as ingrained as breathing. You found yourself in the kitchen, the heart of the cold, too-grand house, trying to warm it with the only thing you knew how to give. The rich, savoury aroma of a slow-cooked stew filled the air, a stark contrast to the manor’s usual scent of polished wood and dust. You were focusing on the simple, familiar task of slicing vegetables, the rhythmic thump of the knife a comforting anchor in the vast, silent uncertainty of your life.

The heavy front door creaked open.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t turn, your shoulders tensing instinctively. You heard the familiar, weary cadence of his footsteps in the foyer—the solid, deliberate tread that announced his presence long before he appeared. They were heavier tonight, weighted with a fatigue you could feel in your own bones. The footsteps paused, then moved through the dining room, and finally stopped at the kitchen’s entrance.

You could feel his gaze on your back, a tangible weight. You kept your eyes fixed on the herbs in your hands, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped thing. The silence stretched, thick and expectant, broken only by the gentle simmer of the pot on the stove.

Then, his voice, deeper and rougher than you remembered, laced with a genuine curiosity you had never heard directed at you before, cut through the quiet.

“What are you cooking?”

The question was so simple, so utterly domestic and normal, that it felt world-shattering. It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a dismissal. It was just a question. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, the words caught in your throat, a tangled knot of hope and fear. The knife stilled in your hand. This was it. The first thread of a connection, fragile as a spider’s silk, offered in the steam-filled space between you.